Dirty on the Inside

In which our not-so-intrepid reporter attempts a cleansed and sober lifestyle.

by Meredith Lindemon

A while back, I was watching this guy pair "Philadelphia's foods" (Tastykakes, wings, soft pretzels) with $80 bottles of Prosecco while I was stuck in the NBC 10 green room. This guy's intestines must be a horrible mass of compacted dough, I thought. Then I thought about what I eat on a daily basis: a pot of coffee, a cupcake and whatever booze publicists send me. I figured I wasn't much better off, except I wasn't 40 pounds overweight and wearing pancake makeup yet.

Michael T. Regan

This prompted me to go on a cleanse, which serves the purpose of cleaning out one's system completely. Anything that holds toxins gets purged, either through the pores of your skin as oil or sweat, or whatever you leave in the toilet. There's the Master Cleanse, which I wasn't even going to mess with (a concoction of water, maple syrup and Cayenne pepper), and a cleanse made up of ingredients I found in my house — drinking water in which vegetables were steamed and herbal tea. That didn't work. Regardless, I was certain I had some modicum of self-control that would get me on the right track.

I met with Erin Owen (healthcatalystonline.com), a trained holistic nutritionist who focuses on Eastern-influenced health counseling practices and works out of her Northern Liberties home office.

I filled out an extensive questionnaire: How do you feel about cooking? I answered, "Fills me with rage." She tried to teach me to eat more effectively — not in front of the TV, not at my desk, not with Marty Moss-Coane.

Instead, it was utter silence at my kitchen table. I had to mindfully chew the food and think about what I was eating. I should mention that this cleanse also required cleaning my home and surrounding myself with supportive, understanding people. So, along with giving up drinking and eating after 7 p.m., I also had to give up my friends, and start spending free time alone. It seemed pretty crazy, but then again, my previous attempts at straight-up starvation hadn't even gotten me close to feeling healthy.

She gave me a two-week-long cleanse/detox plan that I kicked off with some cupping, a practice whereby glass bulbs were suction-cupped to my back to draw out toxins. I found it delightfully uncomfortable. It left circular suction marks making me look like I was attacked by a vacuum cleaner then kicked down the stairs.

Day one was Monday: I was supposed to cut out wheat, yeast and alcohol. I started with some warm lemon water and ate steamed broccoli. I had a press dinner at Tinto and convinced myself that I wasn't going to drink, and I'd eat only prescribed foods. Somewhere around my fourth course and fifth glass of wine, I sat at a friend's table and starting talking to his guest who, if memory serves, was the owner of Chris's Jazz Café. I forgot I was on a cleanse (albeit only the first day), so I felt like technically I wasn't on anything, but whatever.

Day two started with the most amazing hangover. I had to cut out any sugars and all fruit. I tossed the frozen veggie corn dogs (fructose). I steamed, ate in silence, thought about broccoli and wondered about salt. I thought about licking the salt shaker and I did. It was delicious. I drank a gallon of warm water, and spent the rest of the day face-down on the couch when I was supposed to be reflecting and journaling.

On day three I cut out beef, pork and fried foods. I didn't eat this stuff yesterday, but the fact that I could have bothered me. I felt weird. Despite consuming only greens and warm water, I was not sealed to the toilet. I was bloated and pissed. I went to breakfast with a friend and ordered steamed broccoli. My friend said, "You need these toxins. You want to know why my dad can eat and drink whatever? Because he's got tons of toxins floating around. You're going to screw yourself up." Later, I sat through a doctor's appointment thinking about mozzarella cheese. I went home and reflected on how everyone I know is either partially, if not completely, insane and how I might be just as nuts by trying to prove to myself that I have some sort of self-restraint.

Thursday I woke up early, had a ton of energy, and got to the gym by 7:30 a.m. I also had some crazy halitosis that was exacerbated by my now super sense of smell. This was my body releasing that load of toxins. I walked by Dunkin' Donuts on Spring Garden. I could smell the donut-y scent wafting out onto the otherwise filthy street. They smelled delicious, not at all like the urine smell that permeates that section of Spring Garden. I caved and bought a cup of coffee figuring it would do wonders for my bowels. Not so. It completely screwed with me. I felt jittery, had a headache, and even more bloated after half a cup. I became super susceptible to the effects of caffeine: I felt like I was coming down off crack. Another benefit of my cleanse? My face got crazy greasy and I began to excrete perspiration bubbles.

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Friday I cut out dairy and met up with a friend for work. She said, "What's with your face? You look weird, like different or something." That sent me directly to Honey's for the vegetarian chicken-fried steak. Since I was on my way out of town for the weekend, I made no pretense of telling myself I was even going to try.

The following week, I don't remember what I ate, but there was a lot of drinking. I found the more I stuck to my regular routine of eating when I was hungry — lunch special C15 from Chef King and a pack of cigarettes — the better I felt. My breath went back to normal, I stopped looking greasy and I could be social with people without them getting weird on me, and telling me I was anorexic or making them feel bad about ordering steak. Throughout the two weeks, I e-mailed Owen frequently, guiltily admitting that I was falling off left and right. I thought she'd be pissed, but she gave me tips on how to keep to the plan and was the only supportive person I met through this whole thing.

I wasn't totally done with this experiment. As a last-ditch attempt at cleaning myself out, I scheduled a colonic. Sitting in the waiting room at Health Connections, I found out that the prospect of having gallons of water pumped into one's butt is a remarkably humanizing experience. The Rittenhouse-y looking woman to my right (tight face, Hermes-looking bag, Chanel wallet, Tory Birch flats) turned to me, looked me in the eye, and said, "I'm so terrified!" It made me feel better, because when I see this woman on the street, I am terrified of her — and she's not even going to stick anything in my ass.

In the room, I changed into a gown and the technician went over my chart. She agreed I looked bloated, told me to get in a fetal position, informed me my, um, butt was smaller than most peoples' and, while using warm and cold water to hose me out, she told me anecdotes about finding army men, old mangos and tape worms. She didn't find anything in me all that exciting except for some old corn.

An hour later, I walked back home feeling great. Somehow, the colonic de-shitted my brain. I kept telling myself I'd go back for more. I opted for the quick fix — an hour of mild discomfort and I felt great for two days. That two-day feeling was what the cleanse might have accomplished over a longer term if I hadn't failed my experiment in self-control and didn't care about smelling like a nursing home for two weeks. But thinking about food all the time made me neurotic. Maybe people who care this much about what they eat deserve to be smelly and alone, however much I envy their restraint.

(m_lindemon@citypaper.net)